


Identity Crisis

by Nestra



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-22
Updated: 2008-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mick Schtoppel, 365 days a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes**: Originally published in the La Femme Nikita zine Seeing the Invisible.
> 
> **Thanks**: To the DRV girls for beta duties, and Shanola and jean for all their work on the zine.

"I - I'm not sure I understand. You're offering me a - a job?"

"I'm offering you the kind of job every actor dreams of. All your expenses paid -- you'll never have to worry about money or food again. The chance to build characters from the ground up and inhabit those characters twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Don't you want that?"

"Yeah, but...honestly? It sounds too good to be true."

"Well, there are a few conditions..."

***

Whoever they are, they call themselves "Center". He works for Center. He belongs to Center. His old life ceases to exist. He spends the next two years preparing to be Mick Schtoppel.

He discovers that he has a gift for languages. He never knew that, never would have thought about pursuing it, but over the course of his training, he picks up French, Italian, German, Spanish, and even Japanese. Enough Greek to order a meal of souvlakia and ouzo. Enough Russian to keep himself from getting killed.

Other parts of the training are less fulfilling. Lessons in political history and geography, which are constantly being revised as countries and regions shake apart and reshape themselves. Weapons handling. Etiquette lessons for nine different cultures - when to smile, when to stand, when to sit, when to speak, when to accept gifts, when to refuse them.

But he's always got enough to eat, and he doesn't have to worry about making rent or being able to buy new clothes when his old ones wear out. They find him a new apartment in every new city, and whatever he needs, they provide.

He doesn't want it to end.

***

"Are you ready?"

"For what?"

"For an assignment. We're going to put you in contact with a man named Ilya Benko. You'll pose as a small-time crook who specializes in gathering information and passing it along to more powerful men."

"And what -- what am I supposed to do?"

"Just tell Benko anything we give you, and learn to fit in. We'll give it a few months and see if you're successful. If so, we'll proceed to the next stage."

"And if I'm not? ... Hello? Are you still there? Hello?"

***

Real guns are heavier than prop guns, obviously, but he's always surprised when he picks one up and feels its weight pulling on his hand. He's never had to actually shoot anyone, and he desperately hopes that he's never forced to. Besides, it wouldn't really be like Mick. Mick talks his way out of things. Mick's a lover, not a fighter.

He's starting to get comfortable in Mick's skin. His mannerisms are becoming second nature. Mick's accent takes over naturally, words tripping over themselves, witty and irreverent.

Mick doesn't stutter. Not even when he sees her for the first time. Tall and blonde, stalking toward him like she means to knock him out of her way and get on with her life. His job is to make contact with Gray Wellman, but this woman isn't going to let him near Wellman. And then he tries threatening her, and she calls down gunfire on his head.

He's never met anyone like her before.

***

He transitions into being full-time Mick. Section captures Benko, of course, and they bring Mick in too, but they're much more interested in what Mick can do for them. He's grateful for that and absolutely willing to cooperate. Just to make sure, they show him what they do to Benko to make him talk. It makes him sick to his stomach, but he hides it as well as he can.

Then they let him go.

The phone rings every couple of days, and the disembodied voice on the other end gives him enough information to keep him in business. He's never sure whether they pass along true information, but it doesn't really matter. It's all true to Mick. Trust your pal Mick. Would Mick ever steer you wrong?

He sets up permanent residence in Paris. They let him decorate his own apartment, apparently figuring that he'd know Mick's tastes. Money's no limit, and it's a heady feeling. He can simply point to a sofa in a display window or a pair of end tables, and he doesn't have to check the tags. Just waves a platinum credit card at the salespeople.

He strikes up casual acquaintances with his neighbors. When they call him Mick, he answers. He dodges questions whenever he can. Where are you from? What do you do for a living? Got any family? If the questioner persists, he dispenses bits of Mick's backstory. Newcastle. Work in a bank. A sister in London.

Then he retreats back into his empty apartment and closes the door.

***

"We need you to play another role."

"Another one? But I thought -- I thought I was going to be Mick for quite a while."

"You will. We're not getting rid of Mick. We just need a face to go with a name. Ten minutes of work, at the most. Someone will pick you up in four hours. Be ready."

"Wait! What do I do? Who's this new character?"

"We call him Mr. Jones."

***

Section contacts him a few times a month. Nothing serious, usually. Most of the time they just want information that he already has. Once in a while he has to contact Center to find out the answer to Section's question. Very rarely, they drag him along on a mission, when they need him to make direct contact with someone. And frankly, the missions scare the shit out of him, but he likes the unfamiliar sensation of the adrenaline making him shaky and brave.

He sees her - Nikita - again. He sees her in a skimpy outfit that makes his heart race. He sees her face down a woman with a gun.

He sees her with Michael. And he knows what's between them. Even if they don't.

***

"Uh, hello?"

"What is it?"

"Section called. They want to move me out of this apartment and into one in Nikita's building. Across the hall, I think."

"Did they say why? Do they suspect you at all?"

"I don't think so. They said something about rotating me around so I'm always near a Section operative, but I think they might actually want me to keep an eye on her. Just a feeling I got."

"Do it. Pass along any questions that Section asks about Nikita, especially if they display a particular interest in any aspect of her life."

"Anything else?"

"Be her friend, if you want. We don't really care."

***

Moving in next to Nikita signals a change in his relationship with Section. They use him more often, send him on more missions. He learns a painful lesson early on, though, when he puts a source into a car with a man that Section's supposedly transporting to a safe house. He doesn't see the explosion, but he feels the ground shake, and the difference between that moment and the next is the sudden knowledge that he sent a woman to her death.

He didn't know, but that's no excuse. He should have known. He'd allowed himself to get complacent. Comfortable.

He goes to talk to Nikita that night, completely expecting that she'll turn him away. She gives him tea instead, and they sit on her couch and don't talk about dead people. He gives her a version of his background that's less full of lies than usual, and she talks about her childhood and chuckles at his dumb jokes. She even touches on her recruitment into Section, but he can tell from the haunted look in her eyes that he shouldn't push the subject. And when the conversation trickles and sputters into silence, he thanks her for the tea and the hospitality and heads back to his own apartment.

She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder as he left, and he can still feel the warmth lingering there.

***

Mr. Jones speaks with a cultured, crisp accent. He wears tailored clothes, mostly suits, very unlike Mick's looser, hipper, slightly sleazy style. He chooses his words for maximum effect, and he's accustomed to power. Mr. Jones infuses quiet threats into phrases like "I'm certain you'll be happy to cooperate with us" and "really, we're very disappointed in your failure."

He learns to enjoy his stints as Mr. Jones. It's never for more than a few hours every few months - just enough time to fly somewhere exotic and intimidate a few people. It's almost like a vacation. He plays at being Mr. Jones, and then returns home to Mick.

Center's careful to make sure that no one makes any connection between Mick and Mr. Jones. The chances are pretty remote as it is -- the two men move in different circles, and it's unlikely that the men Mr. Jones deals with would ever bother with someone as low on the totem pole as Mick.

He's not sure if a real Mr. Jones exists or not. But real or fake, he's an important man.

***

Deep breath, knock on the door. "You in there, luv?" He waits, knowing that she's staring at his image on the viewscreen, lips probably twisted into an expression that's both annoyed and affectionate.

The door flies open with restrained violence. "What do you want, Mick?" She looks fabulous, as always. Casually rumpled and effortlessly gorgeous. Luckily, as Mick, he's allowed to appreciate that, and he's allowed to manufacture excuses to see her as often as possible. It's right there in his orders. He doesn't know why, but he's not stupid enough to question.

"Got any coffee? I ran out yesterday, and I simply cannot face the world without caffeine." He makes a move to enter her apartment, but she doesn't budge. Doesn't look particularly welcoming either.

"Christ, there's a Starbucks right down the street, and three more within the next two blocks."

"C'mon, luv, you can't spare a few beans for your old pal Mick? Withdrawal is not a pretty sight." He wheedles. He smiles ingratiatingly. He even bats his eyelashes. She's immovable.

"I got in at four o'clock this morning," she says. "I'm going back to bed. Goodbye, Mick."

The door shuts in his face, but he doesn't take it personally. Doesn't matter if he gets the coffee or not. Actually, it's better this way, because now he has an excuse to knock on her door again this evening. He heads back to his apartment to plan the rest of Mick's day.

***

"Jesus!" The exclamation slips out before he can help himself, but that's okay. It's something Mick would do. Mick has never quite gotten used to blood. Corpses are okay most of the time, as long as they're not too messy. He can pretend that corpses are props, but blood is never anything but blood. Sticky and rank and a shocking red as it gushes out of some poor idiot's body.

Section's kills aren't usually so messy, but sometimes things get chaotic. One last shot, and another body hits the ground, and Nikita calls out for him. "Mick? You still alive?"

He stands up, somewhat shakily, and a few stray pieces of glass drop to the floor. "Yeah, no thanks to you lot. What is this, 'shoot first, ask questions later'?"

Michael looks up from the other side of the room, where he's efficiently relieving a dead man of his arsenal. "No. We didn't bother asking questions."

"Oh, funny. Mr. Stone Face decides that now is a good time to grow a sense of humor." Michael gives Nikita a half smile, and she smiles back at him in a way that is reserved only for Michael. Must be one of their good days.

No one ever smiled at him like that.

***

He sees Michael and Nikita together more often than not. Any time he goes on a mission, it's likely to be with the two of them. And he's far more observant than they probably realize. He can tell how things are going between them by judging tiny signals. Body language -- does Nikita face away from Michael whenever she can? Does Michael move with his usual grace? Word choice -- a quietly muttered 'sir', or complete silence from Michael. He can even tell by how smoothly the mission goes. When Michael and Nikita are in sync, nothing can stop them.

When they're unhappy, he stays out of their way. Misery is contagious.

***

One day, Madeline calls him into Section. He's not thrilled; Madeline scares him. If anyone can look past Mick's jovial façade, Madeline can. He also has a hard time reading her, which increases his sense of unease. Today she's wearing her usual expression - placid, yet somehow menacing. He resolves to tread lightly, not overplay Mick too much.

"Sit down, Mick."

He settles uncomfortably into the chair she indicates and wishes he were somewhere else. Or someone else.

"We have an assignment for you."

"Okay," he says, unsure where this is leading. Normally, when he goes on a mission, Nikita contacts him. Sometimes Michael. Never Madeline.

"We need you to find some way to keep Nikita in her apartment next Thursday night."

For a moment, he's not sure he heard her correctly. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. "You want me to...why?"

"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with. We simply need a chance to take some baseline readings, and it's difficult to persuade Nikita to sit still for anything."

"Uh, can't you do it while she's asleep?"

"No." For a moment, the menace in her expression outweighs the placidity. "Thursday night. Do we understand each other?"

He hesitates. "Well...how am I supposed to guarantee that she'll stay in? I can't exactly invite myself over for dinner."

Madeline smiles gently, and he fights back a shiver. "I'm sure you'll figure out something."

He's sure he will too.

***

She opens the door, and he launches into the scene he's prepared. It's not a particularly original diversion, but he didn't have time to plan anything better.

"Picture this," he says, sticking a foot in the door and interjecting enthusiasm into his voice. "Venice. It's five in the morning, and I'm just walking back to my hotel -- from where, you don't need to know -- and I see this in the window."

He flashes a silver pin at her. For all he knows, it could be from Venice. Or it could be from Taiwan. It doesn't matter. He knows she won't accept it. "And I said to myself 'Nikita'. Here, it's fun. I mean, look at it. It's nice."

She frowns at him. "I can't take gifts from you, Mick."

"Pity. Still, I do need a favor." He pushes his way into the apartment, pretending not to hear her exasperated sigh.

"What would that be?"

"My mom. She's coming to town next week for a quick visit."

She's losing her patience. "What's the favor?"

He has to play this just right. A touch of embarrassment but filtered through Mick's typical shamelessness. "Well, she has a certain, uh...how could I say...impression of who I am."

"What does she think you do?"

"She thinks I'm a dentist." Nice, safe, mundane profession. Exactly the kind of thing he'd tell his mother to get her off his back.

"A dentist?"

"An oral surgeon, actually."

Tiny lines of frustration bracket Nikita's mouth as she figures out where he's going with this. "Who's married to..."

"Oh, a gorgeous, leggy, blue-eyed, blonde chippie. That would be you." Toss in some flattery. Probably won't help his cause, but you never know.

"No way, Mick. No. I can't do it."

"Oh, come on! One night, dinner, I'll cook. She's old." He really can cook, although Nikita probably doesn't know it. It seemed like something he would be able to do, so he'd taken lessons a few years ago.

Nikita shakes her head at him and opens the door, plainly expecting him to leave. Time to play the sympathy card. "I might never see her again. It would mean the world to her." Nice touch. He's almost inclined to pat himself on the back. Not too maudlin, just a hint of vulnerability.

She rolls her eyes and sighs, clearly resigned to sacrificing a future night of her life in return for current peace. "If I say yes, will you leave?"

He laughs out loud and shakes his fists in the air. "Yes!" He obligingly turns for the door before she gets angry at his gloating, but the scene needs one last touch. He points to a random picture hanging on her wall. "And could you take that one down? 'Cause it's a bit much, isn't it? And mom's a bit conservative when it comes to art."

Narrowing her eyes, she fixes him with a glare she clearly learned from Madeline. "Mick, don't push."

"Tell you what. We'll talk later." He backs out the door quickly, sensing that he's fast approaching her breaking point.

"Good-bye, Mick." She shuts the door, and he does a little dance of victory in the hall. Maybe she's watching him on the monitor. Maybe not. Doesn't matter -- he just feels like dancing.

***

The two of them sit in Nikita's dining room, not speaking much. He's coached her in what she's supposed to say to his mother, and she knows her lines. It's time for the charade to end, and he's almost surprised to realize how bad he feels about lying to her. Neither espionage or acting encourages truth, but he's personally manipulated her, played on whatever friendship they have so he wouldn't have to face Madeline again. She doesn't know that, but that almost makes it worse. He looks around at the room -- the plates and silverware on the table, the candles decorating the room. He's not proud of himself.

"I think I'm going to call the airline," he says.

"I'm sure she's fine."

"Me too. I just...she should have been here by now. Maybe she missed her flight."

Nikita smiles at him as he takes out his cell phone and dials his apartment number. He lets it ring a couple times, then pretends that someone on the other end has picked up. He goes through the motions of a conversation, filling in the other side in his head, reacting to lines only he can hear.

"Yeah, yeah, I understand. But you're absolutely sure she was on that flight? And it landed at six? Yeah. Right. Yeah. Thanks. " He hits a button and closes the call. From across the room, Nikita looks at him expectantly.

"Well?"

"I don't know what could have happened to her." He doesn't have to work hard to make his voice sound uneasy. "Maybe I should check the hospitals. I knew I should have gone to pick her up myself. I knew it."

His phone rings. He's not surprised by this, since he'd programmed the alarm to go off. Actors always know how to manage their props.

"Hello? Mom! Hello, mom? Yeah, where are you? I thought they'd..." Let the relief trail off as his mother goes into her excuses, wait, wait just a second longer to let the hurt sink in... "Yeah, right. Yeah...yeah...yeah...yeah, all right then. Yeah, thanks for calling."

He hangs up from his imaginary call. Nikita, who's probably realized exactly what's going on, is putting on an earring.

"Well, where is she?"

"Um...she's not going to be able to make it."

"Why?" she asks, eyes narrowing.

"She ran into somebody at the airport."

"Who?"

"Felix. He's an old flame. He's a bit of a cad, actually. Use to make her pay for her own dinners when they went out. She's going to spend a couple of hours with him, instead of with me." He knows Felix's entire story, from his days growing up as a shopkeeper's son, to his gambling debts, to the reason Felix happened to be on the same flight as his mother. He's sure that Nikita won't press him for details, but he has to be prepared.

As he expected, she doesn't speak for a moment. Then she looks at him kindly. "Well... come on, Mick."

She stands up and heads in his direction, but suddenly he can't bear to be there any more, abusing her friendship. He starts to head for the door.

"Let's have some dinner," she says.

"No. You know what, it's fine. You go ahead. It's cool."

"Are you sure? It's ready."

He allows himself a last look at her, this rare glimpse of her as herself -- not a Section agent or a neighbor. "You look really great, you know that? It's a nice thing you were going to do for me." And that is possibly the only true thing he's said all night.

She watches him go, but he doesn't stop until he's safe behind his own door, still clutching the cell phone. _Bravo, Mick,_ he thinks. _A flawless performance._ A sudden burst of fury almost makes him throw the phone across the room, but he can't relax, even here. Madeline might be watching. Center might be listening. Instead, he sets it down on the table near the door and walks slowly, painfully, towards his darkened bedroom.

***

As a child, growing up in Cardiff, he doesn't have many friends. Making friends requires approaching people, speaking to them without being self-conscious. He keeps to himself instead, and sits in corners reading books.

And then one day he's not a child any longer. He's fifteen, and a teacher steps into his corner and gently pushes his book down. He looks up at her with fear, automatically assuming he's done something wrong, but she just smiles at him and says, "We're going to do a school play this year. Romeo and Juliet. Would you like to try out?"

He opens his mouth to refuse, but what comes out is, "I...um...all right."

They cast him as Father Laurence. At first, the sight of all his lines terrifies him, but he reads them over and over again, and before he realizes it, he can speak them without hesitation. He doesn't stutter or trip over words; the rhythm of iambic pentameter is no longer foreign, but a pattern that echoes deep inside him. The three performances his school puts on awake a profound desire in him to do this for the rest of his life.

When he graduates, he rents a tiny flat in the city, and on the application, under "Profession", he writes in bold capital letters, "ACTOR."

***

"Section's definitely done something to Nikita."

"Define 'something'."

"She's changed. They've done something to her. She's completely redecorated the apartment -- painted over her walls, thrown out all her old stuff. She barely even talks to me any more. I don't know what the hell Section gave me to sprinkle around her apartment, but something is very wrong with her."

"You sound upset."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"No. As long as it doesn't get in the way."

"Look, you're the one who told me to go ahead and do what Section wanted, and now Nikita's changed. Don't you even care?"

"Should we? She's just an operative."

"No, she's not! Do you think I'm stupid? I've been reporting on her movements and her relationship with Section for a year now. She's not just an operative to you."

"Very good. You've been paying attention. Michael will probably approach you and enlist your help in returning Nikita to normal. Do whatever he asks."

***

When Michael does find him, it's in Nikita's apartment. It's a grand coincidence; not even he can manipulate Michael so expertly. Michael greets him with a punch to the face, and he doesn't remember hitting the floor.

When he shakes himself back into consciousness, Michael's staring down at him, and he doesn't look like he's in an understanding mood. "Michael, lovely to see you. Would you like to go to my place for a drink?"

Michael grabs him by the collar and yanks him up; it cuts off his airway for a moment, the fabric of his shirt tightening into a noose. Then Michael shoves him across the room, and by the time he's recovered from that, Michael's pulled his gun.

"You know, I got a problem with guns. Do you mind?" He's only partly facetious; it's entirely possible that Michael will lose control when he finds out what he's been doing in Nikita's apartment. He's never actually seen Michael lose control, but if anything will trigger it, the change in Nikita's personality will. He can only hope that he's too important to Michael's plans for Michael to kill him.

"What are you doing to Nikita?" No, he's definitely never seen Michael like this. The flat tone of voice and blank expression aren't signs of Michael's usual control. This is more like...tension. And the weight of some horrible knowledge. Michael must have known something was wrong the first moment he saw Nikita.

"Me? To Nikita? Do you think I've been rogering her?" He tries to laugh. "Michael, Michael! Absolutely not. No. No, no, no. You got it all wrong. Not that I didn't try of course. Before I found about the two of you."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm watering the plants. They do look a bit thirsty, I'll grant you. Maybe I was slacking off." He gets more and more desperate as Michael stalks toward him, and when Michael presses the gun under his chin, the cold metal shocks him into action.

"Bye, Mick."

"Wait! Wait. I'll show you...slowly. Very slowly." He reaches into his coat and extracts the vial that Section sent him. "Don't ask me what it is." He's got a good idea of what it is, actually, but he's pretty sure Michael does too.

Michael takes the vial and examines it for a second, then focuses that blank gaze on him again. "What do you do with it?"

"I just splash a few drops on the floor."

"Why?"

He shrugs as well as he can with a gun pressed against him. "You know the old saw, Michael. You tell me, we'll both know."

Michael pauses, and he can see him processing information, considering and discarding scenarios. "Who at Section asked you to do this?"

"I haven't a clue. It was done anonymously." He takes a shuddering breath, and the pressure from the gun eases slightly. Just slightly. "Look, mate, I like Nikita. This hasn't exactly been my favorite detail. She's changed, she has. It's got something to do with that. But you know, I wasn't exactly given a choice."

Michael considers him for another moment, then pulls back and walks toward the door.

"Michael," he says, "if you take that they will find out and blame me."

Michael barely even takes the time to look back. "That's possible."

"Ouch," he whispers, but Michael is gone. He's glad that he doesn't have to try and resist Michael, because there's probably no limit to what Michael would do in order to get Nikita back. He debates whether he should call into Section and report this incident, but he decides against it. If Section finds out, they'll focus on Michael's actions; if they don't find out, so much the better.

He's seen what Section did to Nikita. He's not very inclined to cooperate with them at the moment.

***

Michael contacts him a few days later, giving him curt instructions on what he's to provide and where to bring it. He actually has to call in Center's help in order to obtain some of the rarer items that Michael needs, but they send them to him without comment. Michael effortlessly manipulates him into bringing Nikita to meet Michael, and that's the last he hears of any of it for a week.

Then she knocks on his door. So he opens it.

He's surprised to see her, and a little apprehensive, considering that he'd handed her over to Michael last time he saw her. For all he knows, she's here to kill him, either on Section's orders or because she's decided that she doesn't like him. But the sight of her reassures him; it's not the unnaturally straight and still posture she'd perfected after Section did whatever they did. Instead, she lounges against the doorframe, looking uneasy and fragile.

"Hey," she says.

He can't help it; he smiles. "Hey, doll. You wanna come in?"

"Yeah, okay." She takes three steps inside and looks at anything but him. She seems tired, dark circles under her eyes, her head drooping a little bit.

"You feeling okay?" he asks.

She sighs quietly. "Better than I was, I guess. I...don't remember a lot about the past few weeks." She looks up then, finally meeting his eyes. "Did I...hurt you? I feel like I might have hurt you."

He reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder. "No, I'm okay."

"You sure?" Her desperate need for reassurance makes his throat clench, but he forces it down.

"Nah, nothing more than a love tap. Kinda turned me on, actually." He flashes a grin at her, and he's never going to tell her about the time she had him pinned to the floor, poised to snap his neck.

That provokes a genuine laugh, when under normal circumstances, she would have rolled her eyes at him and said something cutting. "Good," she says. "That's good."

He lets his hand slip off her shoulder, and she starts walking to the door. "Anyway, I just wanted to come make sure everything was okay. I'm kinda tired, so I'm gonna go take a nap."

"Nikita?"

She turns around, almost flinching, and he wonders what she expects to go wrong. However Michael brought her back, it obviously wasn't easy, and he hopes, for her sake, that she can live with whatever she did while under the Gelman process.

"Nothing," he says. "I'm just glad you're back."

***

"We're stepping up the operation."

"That doesn't tell me a lot, you know. I don't even know what the operation is."

"So listen carefully. Nikita is also working for Center. She has been our agent for roughly three years. We're going to send another operative to you, and you need to introduce her to Nikita as a friend or acquaintance of yours."

"Wait a minute..."

"Under no circumstances are you to tell Nikita that you work for Center. To her, you are still Mick Schtoppel. Michelle will be at your apartment tomorrow. Make sure she makes contact with Nikita. She needs to observe Nikita, and you're providing the excuse."

"Goddamnit, wait! Nikita works for Center? I don't believe it."

"Do I need to speak more slowly? Wasting my time would be a mistake, you know."

"No, I...I just...I'm just surprised."

"Things are going to change a lot in the next few months. So get over it."

***

He'll call her Monique, he thinks. He's certain she won't want Nikita knowing her real name. And besides, Monique sounds much more like an interior designer's name than Michelle. That's who Monique is -- his new interior designer. Frivolous and non-threatening, and it gives him a perfect excuse to barge into Nikita's apartment with Monique in tow.

Michelle doesn't agree. There's something perilously close to a sneer on her face, and she doesn't appear to think much of him. "I'm your what?"

"Interior designer. Trust me, doll, it's perfect. She won't look twice at you if she's too busy being annoyed with me. And I'll make sure she's annoyed."

He's petty enough to be thoroughly gratified when the plan goes off without a hitch, despite Michelle's objections. He keeps Nikita distracted while Michelle floats around the apartment, doing whatever she was sent to do. Maybe she's planting bugs. Maybe she really is just observing.

Nikita gets summoned in by Section and kicks them out before she leaves, but Michelle seems gratified enough. She's completed her mission, and he, by extension, has completed his. And he'd be happy if he never had to deal with Michelle again.

Unfortunately, he doesn't get a choice. Later that week, he's called upon to impersonate Mr. Jones again in order to impress one of Oversight's people, some kid named Hillinger. He's not sure what this Hillinger's done, but he's somehow managed to piss off most of Section and Center. He tries not to look too closely at the boy's face, pretty sure that he'll be dead before long.

Michelle watches as Hillinger is carted off, her delicate features showing no emotion at all.

***

He heads over to Nikita's apartment the next day to get a feel for how Section's handling the near-takeover by Oversight. She's almost certainly not aware of it, but he's always used her moods to gauge Section's atmosphere. As he blathers on about fabric choices and paint colors, she's slightly distracted, but friendly, and he considers that a good sign.

"So the front room is going to be this sort of ochre. Now, I'm not entirely sure what color that is, but it sounds masculine, right?"

She smiles. "It's kind of an orange-yellow, I think."

"Yellow?" He stops for a moment. "I'll have to think about that one. Not that I'd question Monique's taste. She's simply smashing, you know. Got a flawless eye. And her other parts aren't so bad either." Nikita rolls her eyes at the innuendo, as usual. Good. Another sign that the situation's normal; when she's stressed, she snaps at him. When she's upset, she ignores him. "Now," he continues, "did I show you the fabric for my pillow cases?"

"Purple gabardine," she says absently.

"Monique says that's my fabric. It speaks to who I am. You know, strong, bold yet traditional. It also matches my new silk bathrobe." It occurs to him that he should actually get a new silk bathrobe, in case he ever needs to back up this conversation with fact.

"It sounds like this Monique is really working out for you."

"She is not just a decorator, Nikita. She is a spiritual modifier. You know, you really should give her a ring for a consultation. She'll change your life. I promise you."

Nikita gives him a look that promises that she'd rather deal with a Section shrink than a spiritual modifier, but he's saved from her disdain by the sound of the phone.

As she reaches to answer it, he takes the opportunity to ask a careful question. "I heard Section jumped through a few hoops last week. Are things back to normal?"

"Yeah."

"That's good."

She punches a button on the phone. "Hello? Yeah." Her two-second conversation over, she looks at him pointedly. "I gotta go."

"Oh, yeah, me too. I got business to attend to. Things to arrange." Reports to call in to Center. Situational assessments to make. "Yeah. Bye, love."

***

He's not blind. He's not stupid. He knows something's about to go down.

His contacts with Center have gotten more frequent. They're sending him on countless errands as Mick, countless meetings as Mr. Jones. He's almost worried that one day he'll forget who he's supposed to be and slip into Mick's accent while he's supposed to be intimidating some international leader.

Nikita seems to be busier as well, gone from her apartment for days at a time, returning with dark circles under her eyes and weariness in her step.

Whatever's coming, it's going to be big. He hopes he'll still be alive when it's over.

***

"It's time."

"Time?"

"Listen carefully. There's no room for error here. You need to let Nikita know who you are."

"Who I am?"

"Yes. You're Mr. Jones, head of Center. You and Nikita, along with about a hundred of Center's operatives, are going to take over Section."

"Jesus Christ!"

"I'm assuming you don't have a problem with this."

"Uh, no. Of course not. I was just...nothing. It's fine."

"Very good, Mick. Although I can't really call you that any more, can I? You'll be leaving Mick behind."

"I will?"

"Everyone will know you as Mr. Jones. You'll tell them that Mick was a role you adopted to let you move around freely and gather information."

"Oh. Right."

"So set up a meeting with Nikita. Not in her apartment, in case Section's monitoring. A park, or some other place with lots of people. Make sure that surveillance is impossible. Identify yourself to her as Mr. Jones. She'll know who you are. Tell her to expect instructions for the takeover. It's all happening very soon."

***

Nikita stares at him in a way that's a testament to either his acting abilities or her unflattering opinion of Mick's competence. "You're...Mr. Jones. You."

"Yes, Nikita."

She blinks twice, as if she's expecting him to disappear like a hallucination. "You. Mick Schtoppel."

"Not Mick," he says. "Mick doesn't exist." He's surprised by how much it hurts to say that.

"So all this time, you've been pretending? Mick was just..."

"A cover," he supplies. "A means to an end. No one looked twice at Mick when he blathered on about the birds he was shagging that week or the important people he knew. You certainly didn't."

"I can't believe this."

He sighs, still a little offended. "Well, we're just going to have to skip that part. You and I have important business at hand. The time has come for Section to fall."

That gets her attention, shakes her out of her disbelieving stupor. "A takeover?"

"A takeover." She looks entirely too happy at that prospect for him to feel comfortable, and he wonders what hell Operations and company have been putting her through lately.

"When?" she asks.

"Soon. You'll receive instructions in the usual manner, but I wanted to prepare you personally. Operations and Madeline aren't going to be very happy to see me, and I may need you to reinforce my initial authority."

"All right," she says. "I'll wait for my orders. But..."

"Yes, my dear?" He aches to call her "ducks", or "sunshine", or even "popsicle", but those days are over. Mr. Jones never says anything so informal.

"Michael will come through this okay, won't he?"

He doesn't have any idea what to say, so he equivocates as best he can. "Not even I can say. Not right now."

She bites her lip, her teeth digging in and pulling the skin white around them. "I understand, I guess. But..." She looks up at him, earnest, her voice low and quick. "I've been working for Center for three years, and I've never asked for anything."

He can't meet her eyes. "I will try," he promises.

He watches her walk away, dodging children and dogs and frisbees and ice cream vendors, and he prays that Michael will survive. He doesn't know how many casualties will result from Center's takeover, but he suspects that Operations and Madeline will not give in easily.

And he spares a thought for a silent goodbye to the first victim of this upcoming engagement. It's probably stupid to mourn for someone who never existed, who was just a creation of his own mind to begin with, but he already misses Mick.

***

White desk. White walls. Gray suit.

Mick's technicolor life was a lot more entertaining.

***

Nikita looks at him these days with contempt she doesn't bother disguising.

She'd built Mr. Jones up in her mind, pinning three years' worth of hopes on him, and now he's turned out to be nothing more than a paper doll with Mick Schtoppel folded over him like a cheap suit.

She batters him with questions that he can't answer. _Why was I recruited? You know I was framed; did you arrange it? Why did you choose me?_

He wants to tell her, "I didn't choose anything, Nikita, any more than you did. I can't tell you what you need to know. I wish I could."

He wants her to look at him like she used to.

***

Unexpectedly, Mick is resurrected. Section believes they need him for a mission, and in a move that surprises him, Center approves it. It's only been a few months, but the prospect of being Mick again is like finding a box of old souvenirs and keepsakes. Comforting, slightly bittersweet.

The limousine lurches as they hit a pothole, and he shakes himself back into the present. "Valenti's promised the Collective twenty anthrax rockets by Friday. Fifteen minutes ago, she was informed that her supplier was detained at the Turkish border."

"That was us," says Nikita.

It's almost time. He sets down the laptop he's been examining and takes off his glasses. "Right about now she's calling everyone she knows. What she doesn't realize is that only man who can help her is Mick Schtoppel." Small adjustments, but they mean so much. The hat, placed just so. The way he carries himself in his clothes. The cologne that Mr. Jones would never stoop to wear.

"Demming, how are we doing?"

"We're clear to our first mark."

Nikita, who's been absorbed in her own thoughts, looks over at him. "What are you doing?"

Showtime.

"What am I doing, luv? Huh. I'll tell you. I'm becoming Mick. I am becoming Mick." Mick's familiar accents fill the rear of the limousine, warming the space between them. The stunned look on her face isn't exactly what he was hoping for, but he'll take it.

***

He realizes that he's made a terrible misjudgment right around the time Nikita pulls her gun on him. Arguing with a gun has never really gotten him anywhere, so he orders the driver to pull over.

"What do you want?" he asks, meaning _please don't shoot me_ and _what's happened to you?_

"Some answers."

The next few minutes are a blur. She reaches up front and handcuffs his driver to the steering wheel. She shoves him out of the car. She scans him for tracking devices. She moves with cold purpose. He doesn't know what else to do but bluff his way through the interrogation.

"Why was I brought into Section?

"Because of your particular skills."

"I'm gonna ask the question again. Why was I brought into Section One?"

"I don't know."

"Who's my father?"

"I don't know."

Even with the rest of the night's bizarre events, he's shocked when she slaps him, then grabs his collar and pulls him close.

"I've been waiting for seven years for an answer. I'm out of patience! You're the only person who knows. If you don't help..."

He's still confused by the fact that she slapped him. "I can't help. I can't help you." He repeats it over and over, hoping something will get through to her, to this person who looks like Nikita and acts like a callous stranger.

"That's not what I want to hear, Mr. Jones."

He looks at her then, and he knows that she's about to seriously hurt him. What else can he say that will stop her? "I...I... I'm not Mr. Jones."

"Try again!" She sounds completely unaware that he's just uttered a phrase synonymous with a death sentence. Instead, she shoves him to the ground and kicks him, the sharp toes of her shoes digging deep into him. Pain erupts everywhere -- in his stomach, his spine, behind his eyes.

"Why was I brought into Section?"

Air has become a precious commodity. He hopes the moisture on his face is tears and not blood. His fingers dig into the dirt by the side of the road, and when Nikita shoots at him, he clenches his fists so hard that he feels dirt and gravel wedge under his fingernails. Then he realizes that he's not dead, and he curls his arms around his head and pleads. "Stop! Stop!"

She ignores him and fires more shots. "Why was I brought into Section? Tell me!"

The bullets kick up gravel into his face, and the stinging, inconsequential pain breaks him. "I don't know! I'm not who you think I am. I'm not Mr. Jones. I'm an imposter. My...my name is Martin...Henderson." He hasn't said that name, his own name, in four years. Not even to himself.

She kneels next to him, and he's afraid that she's going to snap, put the gun to his head and pull the trigger.

"Please," he begs, not caring how pathetic he sounds. "Just let me up."

"Get up!"

He stands and gropes his way over to the limo, so he can collapse against it if necessary. He can breathe a little better now, but that just means he has more time to think about what's going on. And he wonders if Nikita has deceived him just as much as he's deceived her.

"Who are you?" At least she's still asking questions.

"Look..." Where does he start? What words can he use to explain the past six years of his life?

"What's going on?"

"I know that this is...hard for you to believe. But...I...I...I'm...I'm an actor, that's it." Nothing more. Not a spy. No one important. "I'm an actor. Hired to play a part. Many parts."

The sound of approaching cars coasts towards them, and Nikita turns to him with fury on her face.

"Where is it?

Until that moment, he'd forgotten about the last-resort tracker concealed in his tooth. "It's here. It's… it's here." He pulls it out and places it in her grasping fingers. She ejects the clip from her gun, places the tracker on a bullet, and slams the cartridge back in. It sounds like the cars are nearly on top of them.

"They're here," he protests. "That...that won't work."

"You better hope it does."

She fires a bullet into the air and pulls him down behind the limo. The trucks rattle by, and do not stop.

He straightens up when she tugs on his jacket. She looks calmer now, and he feels the knot of panic in his chest ease slightly.

"You really aren't Mr. Jones, are you?" Her voice is quiet, no longer shrill.

"No," he replies. "I'm...nobody."

***

They climb back into the limousine. Thankfully, Nikita holsters her gun, and he's not sure if he sees regret in her eyes.

"So," she says. "Tell me."

He looks at her, sitting across from him, and curls his hands around his kneecaps. "It was about nine years ago. I was in a rep company in Wales. Shakespeare, some Shaw. Nothing fancy. No money." Two rooms over a bakery, and the wonderful smells could never disguise the dirt or chase away the cold, but as long as he had work, he didn't care. "I used to survive eating peas and stale...crisps. And...and then one day this bloke comes knocking on my door, and he offers me a steady job." If he closes his eyes, he can still see the man's unremarkable face, promising him the chance to be an actor, not just work as one. "It's every actor's dream. How could I know that the world would end up being my stage?"

"Who was in charge?"

He shrugs slightly. "The real Mr. Jones." He's learned that much from his time at Center.

"Did you ever meet the real Mr. Jones?"

"No."

"Tell me more."

She almost sounds like she wants to hear the story, not because of her own agenda, but because she knows he needs to tell it. He decides to pretend, and shifts over to sit next to her. "Two years learning the world and the languages...the people...and the nuances."

"Then you went into Center?"

"First I was Mick Schtoppel. I was Mick Scht..." He falters for a second. "I was...good as Mick Schtoppel. I was very good. It was so very easy for me that they gave me the plum role of Mr. Jones."

"How long ago?"

"Four years."

"And how does Mr. Jones communicate with you?"

"Through Michelle." The answer seems simpler than explaining the anonymous phone calls he used to get. Those had stopped since his...promotion to Mr. Jones.

"Michelle." Nikita frowns slightly, and he's in no way expecting the question that comes next. "Is she related to me?"

"I...couldn't tell you because I don't have the...clearance."

She leans forward and knocks on the partition separating them from the driver. "Take us back to Center."

"What are you doing?"

"We're going back to Center. I have to speak to Michelle."

The car begins to move, and he panics. "No! No, no! Trust me...that would be...that would be...committing suicide."

"Why?" she asks.

Why? Is she stupid, or just insane? "If they know wh...what I told you, they wi...will kill us both. They will. Trust me. We...we get Valenti the anthrax. We go through with the deal, and afterwards we sort this out. Afterwards."

She stares at him, and he stares back, determined to stand up to her. Charging back in Center without Valenti, and with Martin Henderson instead of Mr. Jones will certainly mean his death, if not hers, and goddamnit, he's been kicked and punched and shot at and frightened and humiliated tonight, and he'll be damned if he'll finish that off with "dead".

"Do...do you understand me?" he says. "If we go there, they...they'll kill me. They'll know, and they'll kill me. If you want that to happen, you'll have to do it yourself."

"No," she whispers. "I don't want that. Of course I don't."

"You were shooting at me a few minutes ago."

She winces. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." Raising hollow eyes to his, she's the one stammering now. "You just...you don't know what it's like in Section now. I thought I was free, and they sent me back, and without Michael there..." She presses her lips tightly together, and her face freezes into a defensive immobility. After a moment, she recovers enough to knock on the partition again. "Back to Valenti's club."

The car slows for a moment, then changes direction. They sit together as silent minutes pass.

"I am sorry," she finally whispers. "I had no right to treat you that way, even if I did think you were Mr. Jones."

He takes a deep breath; his ribs feel bruised, but not broken. She doesn't miss the motion. "It's all right," he says, and tosses in a "doll", for the hell of it.

Her tentative smile warms the air.

***

Valenti: secured. Anthrax: secured. Operations doesn't look too pleased to see either him or Nikita; maybe he expected them to fail.

"Take her to Containment." Two Section ops lead Valenti off to her eventual death, and Operations turns to him. "You want a simultaneous feed on her decomposition?"

"Please," he replies, reflecting morbidly that "decomposition" has an unsavory sound to it.

"You'll handle it?" Operations asks Nikita.

She inclines her head slightly. "Yes."

Operations walks off without another word. Nikita watches him leave, her face the expressionless mask that he's seen her wearing so often recently.

"When do I talk to Michelle?"

"Tomorrow, to...tomorrow morning. I just have to make sure that there's no fallout." Despite her apology, despite her desperate need for answers, he's got no intention of facilitating any contact with Michelle. He'll spend the night figuring out how to put Nikita off. Maybe he can give an edited version of the night's events to Center, warn them about Nikita's search for information without mentioning his confession.

"Meaning what?"

"We both know that if they find out that I broke..."

"I'm the only one who knows," she reassures him. "See you tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Tomorrow seems an impossible concept with everything that's happened tonight. He heads for the exit, wanting nothing more than to return to his small apartment at Center's headquarters and sleep for twelve hours.

"Hey," she calls after him. He tuns to look, and she's offering another apology. "I wasn't crazy about Mick Schtoppel and Mr. Jones...but I think I really like Martin." She smiles again, a clear genuine smile that reminds him of simpler times.

***

The hood covering his head smells like new fabric, full of chemicals. He can't see anything, not even any light penetrating among the threads. His other senses are similarly dulled -- no sound reaches his ears, and he can't feel anything other than the ropes holding him down.

They'd grabbed him as soon as he returned to Center, and he knew then that he'd been a fool to imagine that he or Nikita could ever have any secrets from these people. He wonders if they'll kill him immediately or torture him to see if he's been hiding anything else.

After what feels like hours, he hears footsteps approaching. Someone pulls the hood off, and he blinks against the light. A quick look around identifies his apartment at Center. Two men stand behind him, typical operatives. But he's never seen the man sitting in front of him. Expensive clothes, mid-sixties, and utterly at ease.

"Well, Martin," the man says, "we seem to have a problem."

He swallows a few times to moisten his mouth. "Uh, yeah. I guess."

"You guess? You did tell Nikita who you really are, didn't you?"

"Yes." And because he figures he might as well get it out of the way, "Are you going to kill me?"

He can envision several responses to this question. The man could ignore it. The man could hit him. One of the operatives standing behind him could reach around and snap his neck on the spot. But he certainly doesn't expect the man to laugh at him.

"Kill you? That would be a tremendous waste of resources. Do you know how much money we've put into you?"

"Uh, no."

"I do. Down to a few decimal places. Training, surveillance, background cover-ups, to say nothing of clothing and feeding you for six years."

Despite himself, he relaxes a little. "Can you...can you tell me who you are, then?"

"Really, Martin, I expected better of you. Isn't it obvious?"

So he looks closer. Considers the operatives' attitude towards the man, and the man's own aura of confidence and power. And he can only think of one person who could act that way within the walls of Center. "You're the real Mr. Jones, aren't you?"

"I am," the man says. "I must say, I've been quite pleased with your performance over the years. You did very well."

"Uh, thank you?"

"You're welcome. Now, let's talk about your future."

"My future?" He's getting tired of hearing himself ask questions, but he's so off-balance he doesn't know what else to do.

"Well, we have to relocate you, now that Nikita knows the truth."

He'd barely spared a thought for Nikita. "Nikita? Is something going to happen to her?"

The man leans forward slightly, as if the subject interests him. "Yes. But not what you might expect. Don't worry about her. She'll be fine. I'll see to that. Now, as far as you're concerned, I was thinking that we'd send you to our Milan office."

"For what?"

"Oh, you might be surprised at how often they need an actor. You may help coerce information out of an informant. You may take someone's place at a meeting, as you so often did for me. A few hours here, a few hours there. And I suspect that they could also use your help with psychological evaluations. After all, who knows more about motivation than an actor?"

He's stunned, still not quite believing that he'll leave this room alive. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious, Martin. I don't have time for anything else." He pushes himself upright with the help of an ornately decorated cane. "Pack up, and Thomas will escort you to transport." Mr. Jones pauses, then walks over to him. "Are you all right? You look rather confused."

The tension of the past day flares inside him and prods him into anger. "Confused? Of course I'm confused. I've spent most of the past six years being Mick and being _you_. What am I supposed to do now?"

Mr. Jones smiles, and for a moment, the tilt to his mouth reminds him of Nikita. "Why, Martin. Just be yourself."

***

He's nineteen years old, and after months of auditions, the first job he gets is a three-week run of Othello. The theater leaks, and the pay is only slightly better than nothing, but it's still a job. Every night, he puts on his makeup and steps on the stage, and it doesn't matter that the house is only half-full of eighty-year old women and reluctant students. The thrill still runs through him, the energy of live performance shuddering in his veins. He speaks words written five hundred years ago, and he can't imagine ever doing anything else.


End file.
